The Once and Future King
by echo42
Summary: Jaune Arc dreams of knights and castles. He dreams of swords in stones, and wise old wizards. He dreams of promised victory and bitter failure. He is Jaune Arc, long live the King.
1. Prologue: Long Live the King

The fields of Camlann were stained with the blood of her knights. So many deaths, all pointless.

Civil war! What a concept. Treachery, deceit, betrayal. So few had stayed loyal, the Round Table, the foundation of Camelot lay broken. And the damned Saxons had nothing to do with it! Her old foe, Vortigern, was surely laughing in his grave.

And now she was dying. Her misbegotten son had truly been her better. Not only in strength of arms, but in leadership. Maybe he was worthy of the throne, if he could call so many loyal knights to his cause. She couldn't blame that Witch's magic; it was all him. His strength, his charisma, his drive. Truly, he was her son. A strange flicker of pride burned in her breast, the pride a father has for a son that surpassed him. In another life, he would have made a fine heir, she thinks.

The flicker of pride soon burns out at the sight of her dead son impaled on her spear, Rhongomynyad. Even in death, he takes victory, his Clarent stuck deep in her own chest. And, without Avalon's healing light, she will surely die.

It's for the best, she thinks. No parent should have to outlive her child, especially those parents that spill their child's blood. Even unacknowledged, and unloved, Mordred wasn't a poor son. Surely better than she was for poor Sir Ector.

She thinks of her family, her family, not of blood, not the tyrant Uther. Her family, her father, Sir Ector, her brother, Kay, maybe even Guinevere, maybe Mordred. Her heart aches.

She remembers the small keep by a forest, running through fields of wheat, of scrubbing out Kay's inherited armor that was more rust than steel, of those early lessons with Merlin, when he was only her teacher and she was only a student.

Tears roll down her cheeks, Bedivere comes, she thinks, it's all so foggy now. She has him cast the sword out into the lake, she can't stand the sight if it anymore.

He tries to trick her, the stubborn cur. She laughs a little, remembering those early adventures, just her, Kay, and Bedivere. Before she wore a crown, before Kay became a glorified accountant, before Bedivere lost his hand. She laughs, and it hurts, but it's a good hurt.

It's not all bad, not all is lost. Her fool brother still lives, he'll become lord of the keep, he'll find himself a good wife and raise beautiful children. Bedivere will visit them, when he's not travelling or preaching, as he will surely do. He will tell the children stories of their adventures, of Arthur, Kay, and Bedivere, three great friends.

Not about knights and kings. Nothing of castles or glory. Simple stories of children's adventures.

Maybe that cur Merlin will join on occasion, he could turn the children into birds, or fish, or ants, and drag some lesson from it. A lesson he surely invented moments before! The wizard's terrible at sticking to a lesson plan, truly and honestly awful.

God above, she misses that. The simplicity, the honesty. She hates the crown and the kingdom and the knights, and in that moment, she could thank Mordred for flipping the damnable gameboard.

In a way, she's glad.

In death, there will be no more wars to fight, no more burning loyal villages so the damned Saxons can't pillage them, no killing prisoners in winter when there isn't enough food to feed her own army, much less someone else's, no more blood.

Bedivere returns, sword hidden. You fool, she thinks, it will do no one any good. She tells him to send it to the lake again. This time, she hears it sink. She feels its power break away, scattered in the lake. She feels the fae's outrage at having their masterwork cast away like a trinket. She smiles a little. She always hated the fae.

She's learned the truth of that sword, she thinks. There can be no promise of victory, the idea itself is a lie.

Victory must be earned and raised. Grown like wheat, not purchased like iron. Excalibur is a useless instrument, not fit to be turned into a plow.

By the time Bedivere returns, the King is dead.

* * *

In death, she dreams.

She dreams of strange things, of snowy castles and fair haired ladies, of faraway cities made of glass and steel, of cruel men and crueler heroes.

She dreams of fighting, of regret, and of agony.

She dreams of finding love, and knows it's impossible.

She dreams of victory, and knows it's a lie.

She dreams of all the evil in the world, and thinks, maybe this is the truth. But that too fades.

She dreams of strange and fleeting things.

And then she wakes.

* * *

A babe's cry is what draws her to wakefulness. It takes a moment to realize it is her own.

A tall blond man with a thick beard is holding her, she thinks. Her eyes aren't working properly. Everything's fuzzy, she can only see a few feet. Her thoughts flicker in and out of her head, a castle, a red-haired boy, a sword, the images flee. The man remains, wonder colors his face.

"Jaune," He breaths. Is that me, she wonders. Am I Jaune?

A woman laughs, exhausted.

She sleeps and dreams again.

* * *

The dreams are fleeting now, half remembered moments that fade like morning mists.

Months pass. She is no longer Arthuria, or Arthur, or King.

Now he is Jaune. He learns, he crawls, he walks. His eyes mature, and he sees clearly, he grows as a child grows.

He is Jaune Arc.

* * *

He has three elder sisters, Violet, Rose, and Verte.

They are very loud, and they argue about the silliest things, they hate sharing with each other, and they try to put him in dresses!

He realizes why his father was so glad to have a son.

They can be pleasant though. Some days, when father is out hunting, the three of them try and cheer up mother. Incessantly. They try to bake a cake, try to knit a scarf, try to sing a song. They always fail, and mother is so distracted cleaning up messes, that she has no time to be sad that father is gone.

Sometimes he thinks someone's missing. That there should be another here, a brother. Tall, with wide shoulders, and earthy brown hair. Always with a joke and a quip. He looks behind his right shoulder sometimes, expecting someone to say something that he can't. He never is. He tries to put it from his mind.

He grows taller, stronger, more steady on his feet. He has a birthday, and another, and another.

His mother is pregnant. Twins, both girls.

Jaune realizes he's never loved anyone like he loves his sisters, he thinks, holding Noir and Blanc for the first time. It's a fierce sort of love. Jaune dreams of lions, and about how they defend the pride before all else. There are no lions when he's awake, only the beasts of Grimm.

It's sad, Jaune knows. The world is so much smaller now. There are only four kingdoms, he learns. And not one of them is ruled by a king. Jaune asks what happened to the kings, and his father tells him that the kings grew to be tyrants. And tyrants must fall. Jaune doesn't know what to think about that.

His father tells him stories about family long dead, about the name they share, Arc. About fierce warriors, clever generals, and solemn hunters.

It's strange, Jaune thinks. To be proud of one's kin. In his dreams, ancestry is only a deep sort of shame, a feeling of 'I must redeem this name because there is no one else who can.'

Jaune thinks he much prefers being an Arc to a Pendragon.

An Arc doesn't need to worry about a burdensome legacy.

* * *

Jaune is seven years old when he first holds a sword outside of his dreams.

His father carved it from a branch one evening on the porch telling stories to him and his sisters.

It's short and splinted and crude and Jaune loves it. He takes to the sword quickly. Grasping guards and strikes lightning fast, his father tries to teach him the shield, but it only slows him down.

He is a quiet child, reserved where his sisters are outgoing, cautious where others jump, serious where there is levity. A strange child, the parents of other children say.

He is strange, Jaune knows. No matter what his parents and sisters say. He sees too much, thinks too fast. He learns much quicker than any of his sisters, his father looks sad at seeing him move so quickly.

He doesn't have friends. He trains with swords, he plays with his sisters, he listens to his father's stories.

School is hard for Jaune. He and his elder sisters take class at the schoolhouse next to the bakery. The village is small, so the walk from home is quick. His sisters rush off to talk with their friends, Jaune doesn't.

He tries to smile and laugh with the students, but it feels stiff and awkward on his face.

He does well in classes, but his attention wanders. He learns to read and write and do arithmetic, he loves history.

* * *

When he is twelve his mother grows pregnant again. Twins, again. Girls, again. Marron and Rogue, he holds them and feels love stirring.

Soon after his father takes him aside and asks what Jaune wants to do with his life.

Jaune says he wants to be a hunter. His father nods, sad, but accepting and beckons Jaune to follow him.

His father leads him outside the thick walls of the village into the forests beyond. Jaune steps a little closer to his father's side.

They come to a clearing with a single stone in the center, Jaune starts at the sight of it. Dreams long forgotten echo through him.

His father gestures for him to kneel by the stone.

Head bowed and knee bent, his father places a hand on his shoulder, and the rest of the world fall away.

He speaks, "Through transience, we are immortal. Through infinity, we are alone. Through fear, we stand above. Rise, my son."

Light spilled, and a dragon roared. Dreams and reality click together.

* * *

He is seventeen when he leaves for Vale. He carries a long sword on his back, and plate on his chest. His sisters cry, his mother smiles sadly, his father nods, knowing he grew too big for the small village.

He joins a caravan as a guard, and makes little pay. But it hardly matters, Beacon Academy awaits. First, he must gain admittance. For those without formal education, they must prove themselves greater.


	2. Chapter 1: Dinner Woes

I walked into the entrance exam with confidence, but it didn't last long.

I was flat on my back for the fifth time in as many minutes.

With my head ringing through my aura I climbed up to my feet. Annoyingly, Port let me rise unhindered, smiling wide behind his mustache.

I picked up my sword, Velox Mors. The Quick Death.

Every Arc since my great-grandfather had crafted their own weapon. The Crocea Mors, the Cruentae Mors, my father's Tarda Mors, and my own Velox. Many forget, that before we were warriors, we were smiths. Every man of my line had put blood, sweat, and tears into his forge, and from it, we crafted legends. Mine was simply the latest in a long line.

Settling into a long practiced guard, I proceeded cautiously. Port laughed, mustache quivering. His massive axe lay hoisted over one shoulder, the image of nonchalance.

In an explosive movement, I charged, clearing half of the room's length in a second.

I wasn't faster than the master huntsman.

In a motion my eyes barely perceived, he sidestepped my charge, extended his arm in the space between my blade and my neck, and allowed me to clothesline myself.

I rolled ten feet, bleeding my momentum, and choking on air. Even the soul's light can't overcome simple physics.

"Come now, lad. That was a good shot, but you'll need to wake up pretty early to get the drop on this old dog." He slapped his vast stomach, laughter shaking the room.

I rose to my feet once more, tempering my breath through iron will.

More than annoyed, I was confused.

I held few illusions about my own strength. I was strong, yes, I was skilled too. But I was certainly no master, not _yet._ I'd seen my father fight when rare bandits had come to our sleepy village, I was familiar with the gap between masters and students.

He wasn't using some esoteric semblance, or sneaking dust. Just pure strength and skill. And I didn't understand. He was stronger than me, he was more skilled than me, but _exponentially_ so? That's madness. Flatly impossible. Even with decades of mastery over me, weren't we were still playing in the same league, or at least the same _sport?_

So, I asked him.

The man nodded, because, even before a huntsman, he is a teacher.

"Many underestimate the power a man holds. The true weapon," he paused, "was within you all along." He nodded, sage wisdom delivered.

I didn't know what I was expecting, that was mostly par for the course. Just once, _just once_ I would love a straight answer from a figure of authority. Honestly.

This man was a juggernaut. I'd crashed into him, and he'd slapped me aside. I'd slashed and stabbed, and he'd slapped it aside.

I was missing something.

I cleared my thoughts with a shake, there was no time for contemplation. This was my trial, if I wanted to be a huntsman, if I wanted to be _great,_ he was the obstacle I must overcome.

So, when faced with an immovable object, I must become an unstoppable force.

My eyes slid closed.

My awareness of the world dimmed, sound, smell, it all fell away. Only the light of my aura guided me. My eyes opened, sharp and steeled. With sure steps, I charged once more.

Where my earlier charge was fast, and could surely crush a beowolf underfoot, this charge was greater still. The concrete floor of the sparring hall _exploded_ at my start, shattering and cratering under the weight of my semblance, under the natural expression of my soul. Chips of dense concrete scraped against the light of my aura, and bounced clear of me. I'd been relying on simple physics and logical strikes. I had ignored the true power within the human soul. And my soul was mighty indeed.

In half a moment, my sword was poised to bisect him. In that same moment, his axe, once idle, moved to parry.

We clashed with the sound of roaring thunder.

A single bushy eyebrow rose, considering.

Then, he struck.

* * *

I woke up in the Beacon infirmary.

I groaned, my entire body was one massive bruise.

I had lost. Surely, I wasn't expected to defeat the professor, but, to fall to his first real strike? Shame coiled low in my belly. I sighed.

Slowly rising from the hospital cot, I saw I was hardly alone.

The infirmary was filled with bruised and groaning students who had come from across the world, hoping to gain entry at the famous Beacon Academy. Only to be introduced to its world-famous infirmary.

It was not a heartening sight.

A nurse must have seen me sit up, because, with unhurried steps, a short woman meandered my way. Her eyes flickered over a chart at the foot of my bed, and after a few short moments, she nodded decisively.

"Hmm, you're lucky. Only some bruises, you'll be fine once your aura comes back."

I knew she was correct, the healing power of aura incredibly potent, given enough time, anything short of amputation could be healed. Simple bruises would be gone in hours.

"You can leave now, you'll receive a letter of acceptance in a few days, or you won't." And then she walked away, job done. I frowned, this day had hardly gone as planned.

So, I got up, picked up my sword at the foot of my bed, and slung the sheath over my shoulder. I checked my watch, it was still early evening, restaurants were surely open, selling delicious street foods. Defeat causes a man to grow hungry. Truly, the modern city was a wonderland.

Only one thing stood between myself and a feast, my old foe.

The bullhead.

* * *

The city of Vale truly was a beautiful place. Wide, paved streets were lined with shops and restaurants, people buzzed from one place to another, dressed in strange, provocative clothes. It could drive a country boy like myself to madness.

I didn't allow myself to fall to distraction, my goal was in sight. Dinner awaits me.

As I was, walking down the street with the single-minded determination of an unusually stubborn bull, I barely noticed when a small person shaped object crashed into me and bounced off my chest.

I did notice, though.

I looked down, a thin child, all gangly limbs and gaunt features looked up at me with growing horror. Distantly, I noticed two canine ears sprouting atop his head. My eyebrow twitched upwards, something was wrong.

"Young man," I started, firmly, "is that your purse."

I, of course, knew that wasn't his purse. I had a good deal of sisters, and an unfortunately good eye for fashion. Truly, it wasn't his purse. And yet, he was clutching it tight to his chest as if it was. Shameful. The city has its own problems, I suppose.

His eyes twitched to the side, he was looking to escape.

"Young man, did you take that purse from someone."

I stepped into his space, using all my six feet of height to loom over him.

He took off, darting around me in a practiced motion. But I was quicker.

My hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder in a steel grip. For a second, he fought and thrashed, he looked back at me, venom thick in his eyes.

His face paled and the defiance he had flickered and died. He saw the sword slung across my back and the thick cuirass covering my chest and came to the obvious conclusion.

I was a huntsman, and he was twelve.

He was going nowhere.

I wasn't violent with him. Against a young boy, obviously hungry, having stolen a bag? It wasn't anywhere near necessary, yet justice must be served.

I looked him dead in the eye. "Tell me truly boy. Did you steal that purse?" I used the tone my father used when speaking to a militiaman that had done something particularly stupid.

He broke eye contact with me. "Yeah," he whispered.

I frowned, and took a proper look at the boy. He was young, not even of an age with Noir and Blanc. He was also thin, waifishly so. His clothes were simple, yet well cared for. The image was coming together.

My mouth ticked downward, a delicate frown forming.

"What's your name, boy?" I said.

"Quinn Bones," he muttered.

I nodded with authority I didn't necessarily have in the city. "We shall be returning that purse now. Whether or not we shall be involving the authorities is yet to be decided." He nodded.

With my hand firmly planted on his shoulder, he marched to an open-air café.

Slowly, obviously dreading the confrontation, he walked up to a young lady, her back was towards us. The boy opened his mouth, only to close it, and look to me.

I rolled my eyes.

"Excuse me miss," I started.

The young lady's shoulders tensed minutely, she turned her head towards us.

She was quite pretty, I noticed immediately. Even with the large sunglasses that covered a healthy portion of her face, she was beautiful. Her long red hair was tied in a bun, but tresses spilled into her face.

For a moment, I floundered. This girl was _pretty._ And I was _seventeen._ Shamelessly, I shoved the boy forward.

"This young man has something he needs to say to you."

Betrayal sparked in his eyes, "Uh,"

The lady smiled, brittle. "Ah yes, would you like a picture?"

At that, the boy and I exchanged a glance. A picture? Was that a city person thing? Truly, I was in another world.

I looked down at the boy, he quailed.

"This young man has something he would like to apologize to you for, isn't that right?"

She blinked, head tilted in confusion.

She blinked again, when her purse was shoved into her face.

"I'm real sorry miss, I needed the money and your purse looked real expensive so I swiped it when you weren't looking please don't call the cops I won't do it again really and honestly, I won't." I blinked, he can talk?

She blinked once more, was the girl dim?

"Ah," I said, "He bumped into me as he made his escape, I noticed he had a bag that was obviously not his and insisted he return it." I nodded. "If you would like to involve the police, I will stay to give my statement."

Gears starting to turn, she looked to the back of her chair and noticed her bag was gone, and gently pried it from the young faunus boy's hands.

"Ah, I see." She muttered. She opened her purse, checking the contents.

"Why'd you need the money?" She asked, face deep in her purse.

I looked at the boy, interested in his answer. He looked up at me, and at the hand on his shoulder. I quirked an eyebrow up, he huffed out a sigh.

"It's for my mom," he said, "We're paying the Fang protection money, and the deli hasn't been doing real great, ya' know. I-I just wanted to help. I figured a rich lady could afford to lose a purse, uh, no offense. Ma'am."

I sighed. "Don't make excuses," I said, "own up to your mistakes." The boy muttered something under his breath. Insubordinate cur.

She pulled out a thick stack of lien and shoved it into the boy's hands.

I frowned. That was hardly the appropriate response to being robbed.

I pulled the money from the boy's hands and gave it back to the young woman. The boy squawked in protest.

She frowned at me.

"This isn't an issue that can be solved with money, and besides," I looked the boy in the eye, "crime never solves problems, it only creates more. It wouldn't do to reward poor behavior."

"Lien wouldn't hurt," the boy muttered. I stared at him.

"Dishonesty would." I said. He huffed.

"Wait, go back," the girl said, "did you say your mother is paying protection money to the Fang? The White Fang?"

I blinked. The White Fang? The terrorists? Even in my backwater village we'd heard news of them.

The boy looked at us uncertainly, "Yeah, they come by every other week, asking for protection money. We-we're not going to make payment this week, and, that'd be bad."

"Protection? Protection from what, we're in the city of Vale?" The girl looked at me, head tilted in honest confusion.

Ugh. This was going to be my whole day, wasn't it? I only wanted dinner. For a long moment, I looked up to the dimming sky. You could hardly see stars in the city, I noticed distantly.

I came to a decision.

"Young man, take me to your mother's shop. I may be able to solve this problem for you."

I was an Arc, and Arcs did the right thing. Even if the right thing involved missing dinner.

"Err, you're not going to fight them, are you?" He sounded more doubtful than worried. Hurriedly, he added, "Cause, there's a lot of them." I rolled my eyes.

"Of course not, that would be madness. News would spread and your mother would pay the price. No, I plan to speak with them."

The boy looked at me as if I was the mad one.

I huffed, and turned to the girl. "Now, thank you for your understanding, the boy and I will be off."

Hand still firmly planted on his shoulder, I steered the boy away from the café.

"W-wait! I'm coming too!" The girl had jumped up, thrown one of the plastic lien cards on her table and rushed off after me.

That would be bad, it would be hard enough talking down a few thugs with civilians in the next room, adding another, an unnecessary person? Inconceivable.

"Miss," I said, "while I did say I wanted to avoid violence, it would be unwise to invite more trouble."

She frowned, it was a very pretty frown, I noticed. "I can fight you know."

Oh boy, give a rich girl a few self-defense classes and we're off to the races. Now, how to say this without sounding condescending?

"I-I appreciate the thought, but I'm quite confident I can handle a few grunts. Even if it does devolve into a fight, which, again, it will not."

With an air of great drama, she took of her designer sunglasses. Her eyes were very green, I noticed.

Quinn made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine.

I blinked at her.

"I'm Pyrrha Nikos, and I will be joining you."

I think I was missing something here.

* * *

Pyrrha had gone off to get her 'combat gear,' which I was really hoping wasn't just a taser or a whistle or something.

We'd exchanged scroll numbers so we could keep in contact. I may be a country boy, but I wasn't a heathen.

The Bones family deli was in a, how to say this delicately, poor neighborhood. But, they did indeed have food, and we had a few hours to kill.

Mrs. Bones was a kind woman, and I honestly didn't have the heart to tell her that her boy was a thief. He was off the hook, for now. I'd told her I wanted to talk to the Fang, she had, after I assured her there would be no violence, because young huntsmen with long swords don't just talk with terrorists, agreed to let me stick around.

I honestly didn't want to fight anyone tonight.

Pyrrha showed up, minutes after us. She made good time.

She was also dressed in huntress wear. Crimson and copper, she walked through the door with the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing. Maybe I had misjudged her.

Mrs. Bones choked on her drink at the sight of her. Seriously though, what was I missing here? Was she some councilor's daughter?

Mrs. Bones made Pyrrha and I sandwiches, they were delicious. Although that could have been my stomach talking, after all, hunger was the best seasoning,

We ate, and didn't have to wait long.

Two men walked into the small, neighborhood deli with criminal bearing. They were all swagger and arrogance. Most likely, they'd been shown the light of their auras and thought themselves mighty because of it. They used their power to lord over those they saw as weaker.

They stopped at the sight of Pyrrha and I. I imagined that their eyes widened behind their masks.

"Shit," I heard one say, "that's Pyrrha Nikos."

At that, I couldn't help but shoot a look at her, she caught it and laughed. Annoyingly, it was a pretty laugh.

I stood, "Gentlemen, I would like to speak with your employer."

One man stepped forward, the one who recognized Pyrrha, "Ah-you know what, sure. Sounds like a plan." He fumbled for his scroll. Hastily, he whispered something into it.

"Yeah, boss'll be here in a bit, uh, Ms. Nikos. Ma'am."

This was ridiculous. She hadn't even said a word! Was she some sort of vigilante? Bane of criminals everywhere!

I cut a much more intimidating figure. Really. I did. Stop laughing Pyrrha. Please.

* * *

Naturally, trouble was invited.

The massive man with the massive chainsaw flung me through the small deli's front door.

I shook the broken glass from my hair.

I rose, and with a single hand, drew Velox Mors free.

With a roar, he charged towards me.

I was fine with that, it kept the noncombatants, Quinn and his mother, out of his path. I'd have to have faith that Pyrrha was as skilled as claimed, otherwise I'd just left two enemies in a room with three civilians.

I just wanted dinner.

I met his charge with an explosive slash, the teeth of his chainsaw ground to a halt on the adamant steel of Velox, the motor protesting loudly.

Amused, a small smirk grew on my face. "Unfortunately for you," I broke the lock and planted a kick in his chest, "I fight with a sword, not a tree."

He rolled to bleed off the force of the kick and turned it into a rising slash.

We locked blades once more, the exchange favoring me again.

It had less to do with our comparative abilities, and more to do to our similar strengths. We both had avoided the agility focused combat style used by many hunters in favor of unrelenting strength. We both sought to overpower our opponents, and, without one of us being dramatically weaker, our swords would lock and we would contest strength at every blow. Against another opponent, a blade lock would certainly fall in his favor, the teeth of his chainsaw chewing through the comparatively cheaper crucible steel most modern weapons are forged of. However, my Velox was made of sterner stuff. Literally.

Out beyond the walls of a Kingdom, weapons were different. Without easy access to mechanical parts and quick machine forging, smiths from my neck of the woods had to apply their craft differently. Compare two swords from within and without the city of Vale. One will also be a gun, and one will last until perdition. Velox Mors was built to _last._

And so, every time we struck at each other, our blades would lock, and at every lock, his motor would start to skip.

All I needed to do was keep up the pressure and I'd win by attrition.

So, I did. We both knew what my plan was. He fought increasingly defensive, parrying blows and trying to limit the time our swords were locked.

I didn't allow it. I redoubled the pace of the battle, striking faster and faster until Velox was a quicksilver streak dancing through the air.

I'd won, and we both knew it.

In one final blade lock, I hooked Velox into the teeth of the chain, and, with a savage twist of my torso, cut his sword in half.

For an instant, we were both stock still, the sound of the loose chain clattered down the empty street.

He tried to take a back step, keeping the broken remains of his chainsaw in front of him. I didn't allow it.

I charged into his retreat, crashing through the remains of his defense, and with quick footwork, toppled him.

The point of Velox Mors fit well into the hollow of his throat.

"Yield." My voice brooked no disagreement.

I heard the click-clack of Pyrrha's high heels walking out of the deli, my eyes flickered to her, and she smiled. I suppose she was up to the task after all. Unbidden, my lips ticked upward as well.

Thump-thump.

My eyes widened, and I knew I was about to die.

Using the full force of my semblance, I spun, putting my back to my downed foe, and raised my blade in a perfectly rooted block.

Still, my bones shook at the impact.

A thin red katana brought the force to bear.

Holding it was a man with horns peeking out of deep red hair, a faux Grimm mask covered his eyes. A red and black coat covered him. I recognized this man, anyone who'd seen the news would recognize this man.

"That," he spoke in a Menagerie drawl, "is my subordinate you're fighting."

"Apologies," I said through gritted teeth, "your man here was unlawfully running a racketeering operation. It was my duty as a hunter of the Kingdom of Vale to see it stopped."

The man in red and black nodded once, satisfied with my answer.

I nodded as well.

We both flickered to opposite sides of the street, me in front of the deli, and him across it. He carried his lieutenant over his shoulder. Keeping my sword between me and my new foe, I spoke lowly to Pyrrha, "Grab the two men and bring them out here."

She nodded and slowly backed inside.

The man and I hadn't broken eye contact. Well, I hadn't, he was wearing a mask.

He exchanged some quick words with his lieutenant, I couldn't make them out.

Pyrrha came out, a man slung over each shoulder, and dropped them against the deli.

"I hadn't thought the Fang so desperate as to threaten women and children?" I questioned.

"Indeed," he conceded, "I will be having words with my subordinate, rest assured. You've done your duty well tonight, hunter."

"My duty isn't done yet." I said simply.

He tilted his head in inquiry. "Hmm, isn't it? You've stopped the crime and captured the criminals," he gestured to the two unconscious men. "Go home."

"And yet, a criminal stands before me." I said

"By the laws of your Council, yes, I am a criminal."

"The denial of the law is the definition of criminal. Do you support the law, Taurus?"

I could make out the start of a small grin across the dimly lit street.

"Hardly. But what if the laws are unjust? What is a man to do then?"

"The laws may be wrong, yes. But the _law_ is different from _laws_. The _law_ is the idea of civilized discourse, the line between man and beast-ah, forgive me."

"None taken." He said.

"Then there should be civil discourse, not terrorism."

"In a better world, with better men, yes. Problems would be solved at the table instead of at the field of battle." He left unsaid that the world we live in isn't so kind.

"Would you kill a man, for fighting for what he believes in?" He asked, voice soft.

I paused for a moment.

"I would, but I would not hate him for it. A-a man must fight for his beliefs. If he doesn't, then what does he fight for."

"Well said young man." He muttered low. "I stand for my people."

"And I for mine." I answered.

Our definitions of whose people we held were bizarrely overlapping. I loved the people of the Kingdom, and he loved the faunus of Remnant.

He shook his head, as if shaking out the grim thoughts.

"Let's not waste the evening talking politics. Hmm. You know my name," he said, "may I ask yours?"

"I am Jaune Arc." I said.

"Ah, any relation to the Butcher?" He asked, looking honestly interested. I could understand that. It wasn't often you meet the grandson of your people's boogeyman.

"My grandfather," I said, "don't hold it against me."

My kin certainly weren't all paragons of justice, sometimes the only difference between hero and villain was who wrote the history books. And the history books of Menagerie were _much different indeed._

"I wouldn't dream of it," He answered.

Silence rang out through the street. Pyrrha hadn't moved since she'd dropped the men.

"It seems," he said, "we have reached an impasse."

I nodded, he nodded, Pyrrha nodded. Probably, she was standing behind me.

Taurus clicked his fingers, and a shadow rushed towards me.

I stood still, eyes not leaving Taurus for a moment, I trusted in Pyrrha.

And sure enough, steel clashed against steel as Pyrrha and Taurus' assassin fought. My eyes stayed on the man himself.

The entire time we'd been talking, we hadn't _only_ been talking. We were taking the measure of each other.

With light the human eye couldn't see, our souls crashed against each other as two tidal waves, slamming and testing to see where the other was weak. His crimson and my gold flared and wrestled. And, at some unseen signal, we both found what we were looking for.

I gathered my aura and dragged it into the material world, this expression, called semblance, was completely unique to my soul. No other could do what I could do, and I could do nothing another could.

Aura exploded, propelling me forward with the force of a cannon, the sidewalk I was standing on was glowing red hot from the force of my charge. With all the strength I could bring to bear, I swung Velox Mors in a deadly arc.

The power of a cut is the unison of two concepts; the force behind the swing, and the area of the cutting edge.

With my semblance, I had force enough to lift a Goliath. With Velox Mors, I had the edge to split steel. Operating in harmony, there were few things on Remnant I couldn't destroy.

That thin red katana was one of them.

We met in the center of the street, our clash shattered the pavement of the street underfoot, thunder rang from the might of our strikes. From just that first strike, I could tell this was going to be the fiercest fight of my life.

I was glad my aura had time to heal. Between the good meal, the good company, and the just cause, my soul was practically singing for battle.

We met in several, shorter charges, flickering back five, then ten feet, and slamming back even faster. In between the song of our steel and the roar of blood and aura in my ears, I could make out Pyrrha's battle down the street, they were fighting much faster than Taurus and I, but we were hitting much harder.

With two hands on my sword, I took a full step back, and then, coiling my aura as a spring, jumped to the roof of the deli. Taurus landed on the roof across from me at the same time.

The street below us was a warzone. Pavement cracked and glowed, street signs bent at harsh angles, telephone wires whipped around freely, dancing with unrestrained power. This couldn't continue, the city couldn't afford it.

With my soul already singing at the fight, it was a simple thing to call my aura into my sword.

Velox Mors rippled with golden light.

"Surrender now Taurus, or you won't survive the next exchange."

He only chuckled. His katana bled ominous crimson light.

We both took stances.

We leapt.

Wind roared through my hair as I moved faster than I'd ever moved before, my vision tunneled, only my opponent remained.

Thunder cracked as our blades struck, we both flung ourselves away from each other.

My feet barely brushed the shattered earth before I charged again.

With only the molten glow of my aura guiding my strikes, I slashed, whip fast at Taurus, but he mirrored my every move. Our steel sang as they struck, again and again.

Frustration bubbled deep in my gut.

I should be better than this, poisonous thoughts rose. Am I not an Arc? I called deeper and deeper into my soul, and I erupted in golden light. I couldn't defeat Port, but surely this is in my grasp?

He met my every strike still. Harder and harder I struck, I moved faster and faster. Velox blurred as golden light lent it a sharper edge.

Why wasn't he falling back! Was he that much greater than me, would he beat me with a single blow, as Port did? Doubt rose from my gut and choked the flow of my aura.

And Taurus took advantage.

He moved faster, and struck harder. Velox Mors' glow flickered and died. In that moment, I knew I had lost.

With a vicious motion, he locked swords with me, and planted a foot deep into my chest. My cuirass fractured and exploded into molten shards, the light of my aura dimmed further.

I hit the ground hard. My head bounced off broken rubble, and my vision flickered black for a moment, and everything was spinning as it returned. That must have been a hard hit, I thought, for me to be concussed through my aura.

Gathering my dimming light, I rose on unsteady feet. I moved Velox Mors into a block that was more muscle memory than conscious thought. Taurus hammered through.

This was my end, I thought, as my loyal sword clattered off down the broken street.

I was on my back. Damnation, I wasn't about to die on my back! My light flickered and faded as I rose to bleeding knees. I glared up at him, Taurus. He met my eyes with an amused grin.

I refused to look away. I was an Arc, and, if I was to die, I would look my murderer in the face. Distantly, I wondered if I'd made it into Beacon. Strange, what one thinks when death is near.

The cold steel of his katana came to rest under my chin. My eyes refused to waver. He nodded, in respect perhaps? I could only hope.

"I trust," I said, "the Bones will not be chastised?" The amusement on his face died. Heh, if I'm going to die I'm damn sure going to take your enjoyment first.

"On my honor." He said, and strangely, that was enough. I nodded, but still didn't close my eyes.

"Stop." The command rang out too loud on the empty street.

Blinking, my eyes slid to the source of the sound.

It was Pyrrha. And God, I thought, she looks beautiful.

She had both hands on her sword, and her sword on the throat of Taurus' dark assassin, who, I just now realized, was also a woman. I blinked. The people of this city wore truly inappropriate clothing. If one of my sisters ever left the house dressed like that, my father and I would race to see who would get to glue a bedsheet to her head.

Impossibly, Taurus _did_ stop. His blade was pressed tight against my throat, but he'd stopped.

Even through the shards of my now-broken aura, I could _feel_ the rage. Heh. This might end better than I'd hoped for.

Taurus was near shaking in his rage, but he hadn't abandoned reason yet. And, obviously, he valued his subordinates. He had intervened when I had chainsaw-guy dead to rights, and he stops now that Pyrrha has his assassin.

"Her aura is broken," Pyrrha, that wonderful woman, said, "we'll both release our hostages on three, and then we'll both go our separate ways."

Taurus nodded. Without aura, the assassin and I were non-entities, they didn't need to worry about treachery from us, as there was nothing we could do.

"One," she licked her lips.

"Two," her eyes flickered to me, thick with fear.

"Three." She had steeled herself. Good. This was no time for the weakness of the heart. Pride stirred in me, for this girl who was sort of my friend.

The assassin and I started walking past each other. She, like all the others, wore a Grimm's mask to conceal her identity. All I could make out, other than the indecent clothes, was long, raven hair.

We past each other, ships in the night.

I stood by Pyrrha, bloodied, but unbowed. We shared a relieved smile.

"Ahem," Taurus ruined the moment.

He held my sword, Velox Mors. Irrationally, I wanted to punch him for touching it.

He threw it to me, and I snatched it out of the air with unsteady hands.

Floodlights turned on, the darkness of night chased away by the good police of the Vale. The White Fang was already gone, including the two men knocked out in front of the deli.

The cavalry was here. Excellent timing. Real solid, ten out of ten.

Nice to see those taxes at work, Vale.


End file.
